


Smoke and Mirrors

by BlueNeutrino



Category: Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor (Video Games)
Genre: Character Death, Gen, but come on you know this game, talion is reckless, technically, totally not based on my gaming experience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:48:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28117200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueNeutrino/pseuds/BlueNeutrino
Summary: Despite Celebrimbor's warning, Talion crosses the cursed veil in Minas Morgul.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	Smoke and Mirrors

**Author's Note:**

> Because I'm procrastinating on finishing Act 2 and have indeed managed to stupidly die from seeing how far I can wander into the fog and underestimating how long it will take me to get back.

Were Talion not as stubborn as Celebrimbor can be stern, the wraith would take control of his body and wrench him back over the threshold of the cursed veil of smoke that he's just so brashly crossed.

"Talion, you _cannot_ survive in here."

The warning goes unheeded. Talion grits his teeth, tightens his grip on the sword in his hand, and strides on. "I don't have to survive. I just have to survive _long_ _enough._ "

"To what end? You cannot hope to defeat the Witch-King whilst in thrall to his curse."

"Did I not defeat Sauron while bleeding out from my throat?"

"Only because it was I who held him back." Through sheer determination Talion pushes forward, yet already Celebrimbor can feel him begin to falter. The shadow has descended on his senses and his heart has begun to pound, struggling against the corruption blackening his veins. His next step is as laboured as his breath. "I cannot protect you from Nazgûl sorcery, Talion. The Witch-King's foul vapours will kill you."

He hasn't made it as far as the tower. Barely ten meager paces across the courtyard. Pain seizes his muscles and Talion drops to his knees. "I...I _will_ retake this city."

"Not like this." Were it not so foolhardy, Celebrimbor might find his conviction admirable. "Get out of the smoke, Talion."

Realising his own recklessness too late, Talion nods. "Yes…" With a breathless gasp he forces himself to his feet, turning to stagger back in the direction he came.

There are orcs waiting the far side of the veil. How to fight them in this weakened state Celebrimbor doesn't yet know, but his present concern is in forcing Talion's body beyond Minas Morgul's cursed walls.

They're two paces from the gate when Talion goes down. As he falls, Celebrimbor's connection to his body severs, leaving the wraith to stand and look helplessly on as Talion loses his doomed battle with the fog. A final breath seeps from his body and his sword clatters to the flagstones.

It's far from the most painful death he's experienced. It's easily the most pointless.

" _Fool_ ," the elf mutters, though even in his scorn, the sadness at the loss is keenly felt. It won't last, of course. It never does, yet the longer Celebrimbor has spent possessing physical form, the more the sense of being cast adrift in the wraith world has grown to perturb him. He soon misses the solidity of Talion's body, so familiar that, human though it is, sometimes he could mistake it for his own—the warmth of Talion's blood rushing in his veins; the dependable beating of his heart. A feeling of _living_ that mere months ago Celebrimbor could scarcely remember. He fears to forget it again.

Already there's that familiar tug at his spirit beckoning him to a place where he can safely wait and Talion's body can reform, but for a moment longer Celebrimbor resists, turning to cast his gaze towards the tower the ranger had futilely been trying to reach.

From high in the battlements, a figure looks down on them. In the physical world its form appears as a shimmering, sickly green shadow crowned with a mask to disguise the hollow where its face ought to be. Without Talion's eyes, Celebrimbor sees its true form.

Pale and spectral, and in this realm far too like a reflection.

" _He will be mine, Celebrimbor._ " The Witch-King's voice is at once a whisper and a roar permeating the cursed air.

The elf may have lost his anchor to the physical plane, but to fight a wraith, he doesn't need one. Celebrimbor draws his sword. "And how will you claim his soul when it has already departed?"

The laugh that sounds in response is cold and cruel. " _He will come to me on his own. You have already seen how he tries._ "

Another place beckons. Around him the wraith world shifts and flickers, yet for all his efforts, a defensive slash of his blade towards an approaching ghostly form, Celebrimbor can linger no longer. As the shapes of another tower solidify around him, the last thing he sees is the Nazgûl kneeling by Talion's corpse and reaching out a spectral hand.


End file.
